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Small Gods (Poem)
I don’t care about your potentate in the heavens.
Tell me instead about these, the lesser deities:
Who watch over the weary riders on public transit.
Who guard the rough walkers of the hidden hours.
Who consider the disregarded workers in menial jobs.
Divinities not housed in marbled churches
To be addressed by ministers in flowing garb.
Their presence is found in more common spaces.
The hard plastic seats of the bus.
The crumbling tarmac on the roadside.
The bloodied floor of the meat-packing plant.
No soaring hymns with organ
That are sung by an amplified choir.
Only brief prayers of plea and praise.
Oh lord, let me get home.
My god, they almost hit me.
Thank goodness, this day is done.
Their offerings come not in gilt plates
Passed amongst the monied hands.
A glance with a fellow passenger.
A smile thrown into a car window.
A greeting on the way out the door.
Sing love, peace, and goodness
And bless the small gods.
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Glory In The Mountains (Poem)
It was not petrichor, this scent of rain.
The path as I walked had previously
Been dampened by nocturnal showers.
The trees glinted with moisture,
And the sodden ground muffled my footsteps.
No, this was the balm of continued precip
That joined the falling leaves, the cooling winds,
And the shortening light
As messengers all of season’s change.
Glory in the mountains.
